


Repetition Sings

by vargrimar



Series: The Chambers and the Valves [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Banter, Canon Compliant, Domestic Fluff, Falling In Love, M/M, Missing Scene, Post-Episode: s01e03 The Great Game, Pre-Relationship, Season/Series 01, it's literally the two of them bickering, oh yes and sherlock being dumb, that's it that's the fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-20
Updated: 2020-02-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:20:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22822435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vargrimar/pseuds/vargrimar
Summary: Sherlock slides a questing thumb down to feel the throb of his pulse. He’s got nothing reliable to track the time with his phone still resting in his dressing gown pocket, but he can recognise the shift all the same.Faster,faster, it reads, a swelling flutter at the inside of his wrist; ninety-four beats per minute.He needs a case. He needs a case and he needs a cigarette and he needs his elevated heart rate to fuckingsettle, for God’s sake.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: The Chambers and the Valves [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1640680
Comments: 2
Kudos: 46





	Repetition Sings

**Author's Note:**

> ('til finally the melody is sacred, rooted, unchanged)

Sherlock normally appreciates things like quiet and solitude whilst thinking, but this new knowledge somehow sours their appeal.

He can ignore it when there’s a case on. Loads of things vie for his attention in the middle of an investigation; what’s another errant thought or two in the data flow? Not like the presence of a heart (or lack thereof) has ever stopped him from doing what he does best. It’s easy enough to nudge it aside like any other unnecessary piece of information and corral it into a metaphorical box within his mind palace so that he can focus on the situation at hand, and he does just that with his usual efficiency. The Work comes first, just as it always has, and he sees no reason why that should change.

It’s what comes after The Work that changes.

Things sort of… shift. Not that the world isn’t in a constant state of flux or that change in and of itself is unusual, but Sherlock recognises a shift when he sees it. And the more he analyses it, the more he realises that this shift is not a recent occurrence. In fact, said shift had started months ago, and for some reason or another, he’s been unable to come to such a conclusion until now—steeping in the quiet solitude of Baker Street with John puttering about the kitchen and Sherlock sprawled upon the sofa and the silence pressed between them utterly companionable.

“What—I don’t— _how_? Christ, I just bought milk the other day. Sherlock, are you using it in your experiments again? I thought we agreed on keeping that to a minimum.”

Well. Mostly companionable.

Sherlock draws a deep sigh and adjusts his steepled fingers beneath his chin. “ _We_ didn’t agree to anything. You asked me if I could keep milk usage to a minimum, and I said I’d take it into consideration.”

“Yeah. Right. Consideration. Okay.” John makes a displeased noise from the kitchen. “You do know that’s the second time that’s happened this week.”

“I can’t say I’ve kept a detailed catalogue of the refrigerator’s edible contents,” says Sherlock.

“Is that why the crisper drawer’s got a folded list next to the fingers?”

Sherlock bolts upright. “Don’t touch those!”

“Trust me, no one’s going to touch them, me least of all. At least the bag’s not leaking this time. Are they—no, you know what? Never mind. I won’t ask.” John shuts what Sherlock assumes to be the aforementioned crisper drawer. “If you’re pickling fingers, it’s none of my business.”

“Pickling? Please, it’s not even vinegar.” Sherlock resumes his lazy repose upon the sofa cushions and slots his hands under his chin once more. “For the record, it’s _preservation_ , not pickling. Pickling may be a form of preservation, but there’s a marked difference. Consuming formaldehyde whilst not dead will do wonders in getting you there; vinegar, on the other hand, has a surprising number of health benefits. At any rate, I need them to last another week. Hence the formaldehyde. And the crisper.”

“Ah. I take it that’s what the list was about, then.”

“Mm. More or less.”

“Right. And what was the milk for?”

Sherlock can’t resist a grin. “You did say it was none of your business.”

“I said it was none of my business if you were pickling fingers,” says John, footsteps carrying him to the cupboards, “which you’ve just said you’re not. Unless you’re lying and _are_ actually pickling fingers, in which case I should probably—I don’t know, voice my dissent or something, but God knows that never gets me anywhere.”

“That is demonstrably untrue. I haven’t stored any more heads.”

“Only because the last one nearly gave me a bloody heart attack.” The sound of the running tap filters through the flat. (Ah. The kettle. Good.) “Thanks for that, by the way.”

“You’re quite welcome. I’ve turned down the opportunity to house further heads, you know.”

“That was—I wasn’t thanking you for not storing heads. I was thanking you for the heart attack. For storing them. It’s sarcasm.”

“Yes, I do know what sarcasm is.”

John twists off the tap, kettle filled, and flicks it on. “I still draw the line at heads.”

“I’m well aware,” says Sherlock. “That’s why there are pickling fingers in the crisper drawer and not pickling heads. You’re welcome for that as well, by the way.”

John huffs a laugh somewhere in the kitchen. It’s a warm and jovial sound, and Sherlock does not like the way his chest constricts when he hears it. He closes his eyes and attempts to tame it or to will it away, but he finds that the response to John’s (enchanting) laugh is entirely autonomous and not at all unlike the constant beat of a heart.

Unsettled, he draws in a deep inhale and holds it (one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight) until the thrum in his neck starts to taper down.

Sherlock releases it when the whisper of an ache starts to nest in his lungs. He then opens his eyes, plucks his mobile from his dressing gown pocket, swipes to the clock, and with a thumb on his wrist, he counts each beat as the seconds go by. He stops at fifteen. Multiplying the result by four, he gets… ninety-two. Ninety-two beats per minute. Elevated. Still within what is considered normal range, but elevated.

He holds his breath again.

“Tea?” John calls.

Sherlock does not breathe out, but he hums an affirmation loud enough for John to hear. Despite his predicament, tea isn’t a thing he can refuse. There is just something inherently _good_ about John making tea.

Thirty seconds later, another measurement yields eighty-six beats per minute. Not a vast improvement, but it’s enough. He will accept it for now. Sherlock tucks his phone back into his pocket and steeples his fingers once more, narrowing his focus to the rhythm of his own body. The drone of London traffic and the bubble of the kettle and the clinking of mugs become eclipsed by the intricate ecosystem encompassing his brain.

Another case can’t come fast enough, he thinks. He needs _something_ to supersede such inconvenient autonomous responses. The excitement of a proper puzzle always seems to do just that, but Sherlock hasn’t been presented with a promising lead in days. John’s blog does appear to be drawing a sizeable client pool for whatever reason—people never flocked to him like this before John, it’s baffling (a time Before John? baffling)—but the fact remains that most people who find their way to Baker Street come with cases of no real import.

Maybe today, he thinks. Maybe today one will break from the perpetually confused masses and arrive on his doorstep with a proper challenge. He aches for the dilemmas and the quandaries; his fingers itch for the chance to pick apart a crime scene. If he can’t entertain a homicide, then at least give him an intriguing mystery that might _finally_ let him focus on The Work because all this once-savoured quiet and solitude is driving him round the bloody bend.

The likelihood of such a mystery is slim, of course, but one can hope.

Another minute or two passes before John steps through the kitchen’s open threshold. Measured footfalls make their way across the sitting room in John’s usual caneless gait. Sherlock doesn’t need to look to know John’s current state of dress: dark socks, fresh jeans, chequered shirt, all pressed and military precise. From John’s earlier bemused tone and a sideways glance at his posture, Sherlock can further infer his countenance: soft (good), mildly exasperated (bad), but not without kindness (better).

The rest of John comes from memory, all the things Sherlock has observed and filed away with meticulous precision. The rain-blue of John’s eyes always grants him this sort of solidity that Sherlock still can’t explain. John is solid enough with his compact skeletal structure (courtesy of genetics) and his trim musculature (courtesy of his service), but there is something about his eyes, his face, his features that grants John this—this almost overwhelming sort of _groundedness_.

John could be the Earth, Sherlock thinks. John could be earth and soil and sediment and igneous rock and churning magma. He is a man of crags and cliffs, of silken river silt and warming sands with a buried anger that could rival the force of shifting tectonic plates. His troth bears the weight of mountains and his presence is the spine of the world, hefting Sherlock up with a strong yet careful hand.

Sherlock slides a questing thumb down to feel the throb of his pulse. He’s got nothing reliable to track the time with his phone still resting in his dressing gown pocket, but he can recognise the shift all the same. _Faster_ , _faster_ , it reads, a swelling flutter at the inside of his wrist; ninety-four beats per minute.

He needs a case. He needs a case and he needs a cigarette and he needs his elevated heart rate to fucking _settle_ , for God’s sake.

“Here you are. No milk, obviously, but there’s a sugar in it for you.” The gentle ceramic _thunk_ of John setting a mug down on the coffee table punctuates his arrival, followed shortly by a slightly different clatter. “There’s a bit of toast as well if you’re peckish. Blackberry jam, though. We’re out of the strawberry.”

Sherlock pauses his staring contest with the ceiling to give John a tight nod of acknowledgement. John returns it, his own mug of tea in hand, and then returns to his chair by the hearth. With John back in his rightful place, the world realigns and flat’s ambiance nestles back into easy, companionable silence.

In a short while, John will grab his wallet and shuffle into his shoes. Shortly after that, he will leave the flat for Tesco’s where he will purchase milk, strawberry jam, and a few other items that catch his eye (biscuits, most like—gingernuts, excellent taste). Sherlock can predict it because it’s a routine thing for John, much like thinking in silence and solitude or sawing on the violin is a routine for Sherlock. John’s routines tend to be dull and predictable as they always fall into the same sets of variables, but they do not detract from him as an individual. Sherlock knows this as well as any other obvious fact. After all, four months have given him ample time to catalogue, compile, and extrapolate John’s routines. Becoming well versed in his flatmate’s mundane tendencies is something to be expected.

This has, of course, contributed toward a better structured John Room in his mind palace. The John there wears earthen cardigans and loam-like jumpers with a variety of tartan and chequered button-downs. The John there sits in his chair with the newspaper or his laptop computer, tick-tick-ticking away at a blog post. The John there has arctic seawater eyes and sand-blond hair and a starburst sepulchred in the plane of his left shoulder, his mouth always canted in a thoughtful turn. The John there is curious, meticulous, brave, pertinacious, and gives copious praise; one of Sherlock’s better palace doppelgängers despite an incomplete dataset.

The existence of this John should perhaps warrant cause for concern considering the presence of a heart in Sherlock’s chest. Then again, he has palace doppelgängers for almost every person he’s ever come into contact with, fleeting as they are; it’s only logical that John should have his own. Exempting one’s own flatmate seems a bit odd when it is such a common practice, especially when said flatmate appears to be an object of permanence.

“Well, I suppose I’ll pop down to Tesco’s. Again. For the second time this week.” John fixes Sherlock with a judging stare from across the room, but there are crinkles at the corners of his eyes. Warmth lies in each crease. “I’ll just grab you a litre of your own, then, shall I?”

Ah, there it is. Predictable, as always. Humans are such habitual creatures. John is no exception.

Sherlock’s thumb seeks the pulse point on his wrist.

Apparently, neither is he.


End file.
